


selves unimaginably mine

by lupinely



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, set early s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21590998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupinely/pseuds/lupinely
Summary: Arthur smiles, a slow, disarming smile. Merlin takes another sip of his beer to hide his reaction. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” Arthur says. “What’s your name?”What the fuck? Merlin thinks, and then: oh my god. He suddenly understands—or thinks that he does—why Arthur is here.OR: Arthur pretends to be a stranger, and tries to pick Merlin up in the tavern.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 617





	selves unimaginably mine

**Author's Note:**

> title from ee cummings: "losing through you what seemed myself;i find / selves unimaginably mine;beyond / sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears."

Gwaine has just finished ordering them another round when Merlin looks up and sees Arthur walk into the tavern—unobtrusive, without declaration. Merlin chokes on his beer.

Gwaine pounds him on the back. “You all right?”

Merlin coughs, his eyes watering, and nods. For a moment he can’t see Arthur. Then he swims back into focus, and Merlin realizes why Gwaine, who is facing the door more directly than Merlin, hasn’t noticed him.

Arthur looks different: not like himself. Or, to put it more bluntly—and more accurately—he is intentionally disguised. His face is mostly visible, but he is wearing a bulky coat with a large hood, and his hair, from what Merlin can see beneath the fabric, is slicked back so it looks darker, and he looks older. He is wearing none of his usual clothes, not his armor or his sword or even his cloak, and not a single garment bears the royal crest or thread. Merlin, who is well acquainted with the entirety of Arthur’s wardrobe, does not recognize these clothes at all.

Arthur is carrying himself differently, too, in a way that’s subtle but effective. A small tilt to his head, an altered slant to his shoulders, a slightly shorter gait, and he becomes a completely different person.

Yet Merlin still knows him, knows him instantly. He is amazed that Gwaine doesn’t, that he hasn’t looked at Arthur twice.

Gwaine watches Merlin doubtfully. “Maybe you’ve had enough.”

Arthur and Merlin’s eyes meet. Just for a single second: nothing more. Arthur’s face shows no recognition, no acknowledgement; his gaze slides over and then past Merlin as sunlight through glass. His expression changes not at all.

“I’m fine,” Merlin says. He watches Arthur take a seat across the bustling room full of laughing, talking people, all of whom have shifted out of Merlin’s focus the way that looking through a telescope flattens and obscures everything it does not define. Arthur raises a hand and gestures over a server. Merlin shrinks into his seat.

“Maybe I should have your beer just in case,” Gwaine says as their server, Ingrid, shows up with their drinks.

Merlin snatches his glass out of Gwaine’s reach and takes a huge gulp. It won’t help—he knows better than that—but it’s still comforting, and so is Gwaine’s loud and open laugh.

Why the hell is Arthur here, dressed like that? Does he think that’s enough to trick Merlin into not recognizing him, that he would be able to enter the tavern and observe Merlin—if that is why he’s here—unnoticed? Merlin holds up his glass, shielding his face, feeling himself grow warm. He doesn’t know whether he’s embarrassed or annoyed or something else entirely. All he knows is that, despite all that Arthur is not looking at him, he feels seen—feels, inexplicably, the energy of Arthur’s presence, the charge of it, the way his hair stands on end when he stands outside before a thunderstorm rolls in, or in the instant before he casts a spell.

The only explanation Merlin can discern is that Arthur wanted to see how Merlin spends his spare time in the tavern. And so of course Arthur is here the one time that Merlin actually _is_ in the tavern, rather than off doing some incredibly secret magic to save Arthur’s life. Because Merlin doesn’t spend all his time in the tavern despite what Arthur believes (and thanks very much for that, Gaius). In fact he hardly spends any time here at all, except on the rare occasion that the knights have an evening off and one of them, usually Gwaine or Lancelot, invites Merlin along. Merlin can count on one hand the number of times that he has been here for any other reason, including tonight. Tonight it’s only him and Gwaine, catching up and winding down after a very long week.

But that doesn’t matter, because Arthur doesn’t know any of it, and here Merlin is. And here is Arthur—not looking round, not looking like himself, but very clearly here for Merlin. Even his not-watching is obtrusive: deliberate. Arthur never acts unintentionally.

“Oh my god,” Merlin mutters, and he shrinks deeper in his seat.

Gwaine peers at him. “Are you talking to yourself?”

“No.”

“You were.” Gwaine grins, that easy familiar smile. “You’re drunk.”

Merlin definitely isn’t, but arguing would be pointless, and this is as good an excuse for his behavior as any. He says nothing.

Gwaine shakes his head. “Lightweight.”

“Fuck off,” Merlin says, but he’s grinning now, too.

They finish their beers, still talking, though Merlin barely knows what he says. He watches Arthur by not-watching; he looks at Gwaine, but in his peripheral vision he can see the outline of Arthur, sitting alone, not-watching him in return. Arthur receives his drink—also beer—and pays the serving girl with a few coins. Merlin doesn’t know whether he has ever seen Arthur actually pay for anything before. He doesn’t know whether Arthur has ever personally paid for anything in his life.

Time crawls by. It’s growing late, but Merlin can’t bring himself to leave. “Another round?”

“I don’t think so. Early day tomorrow, you know.” Gwaine looks at Merlin. “You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah.”

Gwaine says nothing, watching him. Then: “All right.” He fishes some coins out of his pocket. “Where’s Ingrid?”

“Here.” Merlin holds out his hand. “I can wait for her. You’ve got that early day tomorrow, after all.”

Gwaine makes a face but hands him his coins. “Don’t fall into any gutters on the way home.”

“Ha, ha.” Merlin smiles when Gwaine laughs and pulls him into a hug. Then Gwaine gets to his feet, a little unsteadily, and makes his way to the door. He waves at Merlin before he leaves. Merlin, smiling, waves back.

When Ingrid stops by again, Merlin hands her the coins. She then tries to slide another glass of beer onto the small round tabletop, and Merlin says, “Oh, I didn’t order anything else.”

Ingrid nods to a corner of the room—Arthur’s corner. “He ordered it for you. Asked what you were drinking. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?” She winks at Merlin, seeming not to notice his discomfort, and leaves with the empty glasses and coins.

Merlin stares into his new pint of beer. His mouth is a desert. He has a feeling the beer won’t help. He is aware of his heartbeat, of the stale taste in his mouth, of how strange his skin feels, as if by being watched—or not-watched—he has somehow been fundamentally changed. As if through the mere act of observing Merlin, Arthur has altered him.

Merlin plays with the handle of the glass, wondering whether he should leave, whether Arthur would stop him, or follow him, or do nothing: just sit there and not-react, his mere presence an obtrusion, a signal, a message that Merlin cannot read.

Why should he feel guilty about something that’s not even true? But he can’t explain to Arthur that this isn’t his usual haunt—that he spends more time holed up in Gaius’s quarters researching the theory of protective spells and wards than he does drinking in the tavern. That he really spends most-verging-on-all of his time learning how to do better, be better, so he can protect Arthur better. There is no way to say that. And so Merlin can’t say anything, can’t defend himself. Can only sit there and be observed.

Finally Merlin gives up. It is good beer, after all. He raises the glass to his lips and takes a sip. He isn’t drunk, not even tipsy, but this is stronger stuff than what he and Gwaine had a couple rounds of. What is Arthur trying to say? Trying to get Merlin to admit to?

You could go up and ask him, Merlin thinks. Let Arthur defend himself instead. But he doesn’t.

But Arthur seems to take Merlin’s acceptance of the beer as a sign. He stands and walks casually, without haste, to Merlin’s table. He gestures at Gwaine’s now-empty chair. “This seat taken?”

Merlin shakes his head.

Arthur’s mouth twitches. “Mind if I sit?”

“No.”

Arthur smiles, a slow, disarming smile. Merlin takes another sip of his beer to hide his reaction. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” Arthur says. “What’s your name?”

What the fuck? Merlin thinks, and then: oh my god. He suddenly understands—or thinks that he does—why Arthur is here. He isn’t here to spy on Merlin, or to berate him for spending his night off getting drunk in the tavern.

He’s here to pick Merlin up. Like they’re two strangers who’ve met by chance one night over drinks, one of them taking the other home for an anonymous fuck, the two of them parting ways before the sun rises.

Merlin flushes so much that he can feel the tips of his ears burning. He has never been more thankful for the dim tavern firelight, though he knows it’s too much to hope that it will successfully keep Arthur from noticing Merlin’s reaction to this absurdity.

You complete bastard, Merlin thinks. You absolute and utter dick. “I’m Merlin,” he manages to say. “And you?”

“Arcturus,” says Arthur.

Merlin barely keeps himself from snorting. Shakily, he raises his glass to his mouth and takes a sip. When he licks his lips afterwards, Arthur’s eyes follow the movement of his tongue. It becomes all too easy, after the initial shock, to play along. “I haven’t seen you here before, either,” he says, keeping his voice level. “I would’ve remembered you.”

He watches the muscle in Arthur’s jaw clench, just briefly, the familiar telltale sign that Arthur has grit his teeth together ever-so-slightly, the way he does whenever Merlin teases him, gets too close, makes him squirm. Because even that Arthur cannot do any other way but royally. Merlin hides a smile behind his glass.

“Are you from around here?” asks Arthur.

“No. I wasn’t born in Camelot.”

“What brings you here?”

“I work for the prince.”

Arthur tucks away a smile. “A noble man, I’ve heard.”

“Ehh,” Merlin says. “When he’s not being a prat. Which he usually is.”

Arthur just raises his eyebrow. “Sounds like you have stories.”

“Loads of them. None of them particularly interesting.”

Arthur takes off his coat, absently loosening his collar. “Really? Not one?”

Merlin stares as Arthur slowly rolls up his shirt sleeves, exposing his forearms, and at the golden hair glinting there in the firelight. Goddamn him. Whatever he used to slick back his hair has started to come loose, and a few strands hang over his brow. Without the heavy coat he looks much more like himself, though there is still something about the way he is carrying himself that is wrong, un-Arthur. Still, Merlin can’t believe that no one else in the tavern has recognized who is sitting among them tonight.

“You’re not very good at this,” Merlin lies, breaking the pretend reality they’ve created for a moment.

But Arthur does not follow him past the end of the charade. “At small talk? It’s never been a strength of mine. But I have others, if you’ve any interest in learning them.” He leans forward. The v of his neckline deepens.

And, well—two can play at that game. Merlin drains the rest of his beer—wishing it were water—and runs his hand through his hair. He watches Arthur watch his fingers. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” Beneath the table, he moves his thigh so that it presses against Arthur’s. Heat leaps across the point of contact between them.

Arthur’s mouth curves. “I think you do.”

“Yeah?” Merlin says. “Then show me.”

Arthur just watches him for a moment. Merlin feels giddy despite himself, light-headed. He doesn’t know why Arthur has done this—pretended to be someone else and come to hit on Merlin at the tavern when he could have just stopped by Gaius’s quarters later to complain about some chore not being done and have had much the same effect. It’s not as if either of them is shy about this thing that lies unnamed but not unacknowledged between them. Merlin has been sleeping in Arthur’s bed nearly every other night for months now. But here Arthur is. Merlin isn’t complaining, exactly. He just doesn’t understand why.

He hates to admit, even to himself, that a part of him loves this pretense. Loves to imagine that, if they were anybody else, living any other lives—if Merlin weren’t Arthur’s servant, and Arthur weren’t the king-to-be of Camelot—that they would still want each other this way. That Arthur would still want Merlin.

That, maybe, if Arthur knew the truth—knew about Merlin’s magic—he would still want him.

So Merlin lets the moment draw itself out, like yarn unraveling on the spool beside the loom. Lets Arthur be the one to draw the thread, to weave it, so that Merlin can live in that moment of pretense for just a while longer.

Arthur watches Merlin. They are close but not overly much; they’ve drawn no attention from the other tavern goers, though Merlin notices that Ingrid has kept her distance. Arthur hasn’t moved his thigh from Merlin’s, but nor has he drawn any closer. He watches, and the line between Arthur and this non-Arthur blurs, wavers, loses its hard edge of demarcation and becomes a field, a shore, water pushing and pulling at the border, unwriting it.

“There’s something about you,” Arthur says. “I don’t know what it is. Something....” He shakes his head. His hand moves across the tabletop, his index finger brushing Merlin’s. “You’re not like anyone else here.”

Merlin clears his throat, says nothing. Arthur smiles, seemingly pleased with the effect he’s had. Merlin can’t tell whether what Arthur said was part of the game or something else entirely, a rare moment of clarity between the two of them, of truth, light hitting a stained glass window and becoming new.

“So,” Merlin manages at last; “your place or mine?”

Arthur looks, for the first time, startled. Merlin isn’t sure why—either because of Merlin’s straightforwardness or because Arthur has only now realized that, if he wants to keep up the game, there is no possibility of returning to the royal quarters tonight.

“Yours,” Arthur says. “If it’s not imposing.”

This time Merlin does snort. The only time he’s ever heard Arthur care about imposing on him, and it’s when he’s pretending to be someone else. “Come with me, then.”

It isn’t far to the castle courtyard and Gaius’s quarters. Arthur walks close beside Merlin, matching his stride, their shoulders bumping together. Merlin can still feel the heat of him like a physical presence. An imposition. He prays Gaius isn’t home.

The quarters are empty when they reach them. Merlin lets Arthur inside, and Arthur walks in like a man who has never set foot here before, each step a new experience. Merlin doesn’t know how the hell he does it. There is something endlessly fascinating about this side of Arthur, the commanding charisma that has a strength and presence all its own.

Merlin shuts the door and turns around. When he does, Arthur is there, unbearably close. Merlin swallows. “Hi.”

Arthur looks at him, at his eyes, at his mouth. He doesn’t say anything. A moment later he leans in and kisses Merlin, breaking over him like a wave. He pushes Merlin backwards until his back is against the door and kisses him, keeps kissing him.

Merlin—to, he believes, his very great credit—matches Arthur in his entirety. He puts his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and pulls him closer, tilting his head for better access. He can feel Arthur breathing, feel the cool slide of his hair between his fingers before he takes hold and gently tugs.

Arthur laughs, staccato, their noses bumping. “Let me know if this is too forward.”

“I thought my invitation was clear.”

“Mm.” Arthur nuzzles the side of Merlin’s neck, presses his mouth against Merlin’s skin. “Still, one shouldn’t assume.”

Merlin laughs. “God forbid _you_ ever do.”

Arthur nips his teeth against Merlin’s collarbone, a rebuke, and Merlin’s hands skitter over Arthur’s shoulders. One of Arthur’s hands is braced against the door, caging Merlin in; the other grasps Merlin by the hip, easily palming the swell of bone there, each of his fingertips a pressure point. Merlin shifts beneath Arthur’s hold, watching him, trying to meet his eyes. Arthur brushes his thumb over Merlin’s hip bone and looks back.

That icy shock. The slide of water over steel. Merlin shivers. He slides his hand over the back of Arthur’s neck, touching the soft short hair there.

“Go on, then,” he says quietly.

Arthur kisses him again. They kiss for a long time, more slowly now, tangled in each other, sharing breath. Not a trace of the non-Arthur remains anymore; he is fully himself, and engrossed in nothing else but Merlin. His hands move with that familiar deliberateness, as well-practiced with Merlin’s skin at this point as they are with a sword, with making a fist.

The idea that Arthur has studied him, learned how to touch him, with the same intensity and focus that he devotes to combat makes Merlin shiver. He pushes Arthur away from the door, takes his hand. “Come on.”

He leads Arthur to his room, tiny, messy, familiar but now-new. He and Arthur have never slept here before. They’ve always been in Arthur’s quarters, in Arthur’s space, on Arthur’s terms. Not maliciously, or even intentionally—Arthur’s quarters are more private, and Merlin spends more time there than he does in his own room, anyway. Still: Merlin can tell that they are both cognizant of the shift in dynamic as they enter Merlin’s room and Merlin pushes Arthur down onto his small bed.

Arthur looks briefly uncomfortable, as if he regrets letting the game go on so long that they’ve ended up here and not in his large, far more luxurious bed in the castle. Well, Merlin thinks, you should have thought of that sooner. He straddles Arthur and pushes him back against the headboard. Arthur’s arms come up reflexively to hold Merlin close. He tilts back his head, looking up at Merlin.

Merlin frowns. “Are you all right?”

Arthur nods. A pause, then: “You?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, and means it. He leans down and kisses him. Arthur kisses him gratefully back, his hands roaming over Merlin’s hips, his thighs, his ass. Merlin shifts his weight, threading Arthur along, letting the moment between them build, feeling Arthur get hard beneath him, feeling himself get hard in return.

Why did you do it? Merlin wants to ask. Why pretend to be someone else, pretend not to know me? He has always been hyperaware of the disparity between them, the context that any sort of relationship which they may have cannot escape. He'd wondered earlier whether Arthur would still want him in that new context, where Merlin wasn’t a servant and Arthur wasn’t prince. Had Arthur wondered and wanted to know, or to have some pretense of knowing, the same thing?

They can’t escape their destinies; that much Merlin knows. But Merlin thinks that no matter how you roll the dice—no matter how fate might show or hide her hand—it wouldn’t matter. In the beginning he did what he did for his and Arthur’s shared destiny, their fate: the future and prosperity of Camelot. Now he does it only for Arthur. Destiny be damned.

Merlin wonders how long that been true—how long he has avoided admitting it to himself, avoided acknowledging this tectonic shift. The tidal pull that Arthur exerts has become stronger than the force of destiny’s gravity. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

Arthur suddenly wraps his arms around Merlin’s middle and twists, moving them both, flipping Merlin onto his back. Merlin feels the breath go out of him as Arthur pins him against the bed, still kissing him. Arthur slides his hands beneath Merlin’s shirt and pushes it up, his hands skimming Merlin’s stomach, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He breaks off the kiss just long enough to lift Merlin’s shirt over his head and toss it aside.

“You too,” Merlin says. Arthur complies, stripping out of his shirt and then bearing down again on Merlin. Merlin can feel him smiling, can feel himself smiling. He moves within Arthur’s grasp, lifting off the bed a little when Arthur slides his hands underneath Merlin’s back and over his ass again, gripping tightly, letting go. When Arthur’s hand brushes over the front of Merlin’s trousers, Merlin twitches at the touch, the rough scrape of fabric against his cock. Arthur palms Merlin’s hard on, slips his fingers between the laces. Skin touches skin and Merlin exhales through his teeth.

Arthur grins and kisses Merlin again, kisses his jaw, his collarbone, his stomach, before undoing Merlin’s laces and pulling his trousers down past his knees. When he wraps his hand around Merlin’s cock, Merlin tenses, then relaxes, one of his hands twisting reflexively in the blankets bunched beneath him. Arthur is still smiling. He kisses the inside of Merlin’s thigh, once, before putting his mouth on him.

Arthur has learned well, and quickly, exactly what Merlin likes these last few months. He wastes no time getting right to it, following the motion of his head with his hand, his other hand pressed hard against Merlin’s hip bone, holding him in place as Merlin tries to keep from shaking beneath him.

Arthur sucks hard, then gently, pressing his tongue firm and then soft. Merlin takes a breath, finds it hard to let it out again. He reaches down and touches Arthur’s hair, then hesitates when he realizes what he’d intended to do—and then he does it anyway, twisting his fingers in Arthur’s slicked back hair and pulling hard.

Arthur moans. His fingertips press against Merlin’s skin. After a moment they let go, and Merlin realizes, dimly, that Arthur has undone his own trousers and taken himself into his hand. Merlin shuts his eyes.

When Arthur pulls away and brushes his thumb over the head of Merlin’s dick, saying, “I’ve got you, come on, I’ve got you,” Merlin tenses all over, his hand twisting, his teeth biting into the side of his lip, the pain of that and the pleasure of everything else evening out together, the movement of Arthur’s hand, the rough slide of the calluses on his palm, the sudden and firm pressure again of his mouth.

Merlin comes beneath that pressure, that insistence, his whole body shaking, overtaken by something beyond his control. Dimly he is aware of Arthur humming something, or groaning, his hand still in his own trousers, his nose pressed against Merlin’s stomach as Merlin comes over and onto his other hand. Arthur’s grip on Merlin’s cock tightens just briefly, the touch too much on Merlin’s sensitive skin, then he lets go. Merlin pulls him up and kisses him. He slips his hand between their bodies and pushes Arthur’s aside, slips past the waistband of his trousers to grasp Arthur’s cock himself.

Arthur does groan now, audibly. He collapses against Merlin, braced shakily on only one arm over Merlin’s shoulder. Their mouths are close but not touching until Merlin turns his head and kisses Arthur, who lets himself be kissed, lets Merlin fuck him with his hand. Merlin holds Arthur and kisses him and is about to push him over so that he can go down on Arthur, too, when Arthur suddenly moans something and falls down against Merlin. The way their bodies are pressed together makes it difficult for Merlin to keep jerking Arthur off, but he doesn’t stop, and apparently it’s enough because Arthur says, breathlessly, “Oh god Merlin,” and comes.

Merlin smiles, pressing his nose against Arthur’s neck, holding him through it. He waits the few moments it takes for Arthur to come back to himself, back to Merlin. While Arthur’s eyes are closed, Merlin looks across the room and summons a cloth from his desk with a silent spell. Risky. Dangerous. Merlin has found himself doing more and more magic when Arthur isn’t looking, but could be, these past few months. Like he is daring Arthur to notice. Daring him to see.

After a few moments Arthur sighs and falls to the side, careful not to land on Merlin. Merlin uses the cloth to clean them both up, and then he turns to face Arthur. He watches him, still waiting for him to come all the way back.

Arthur opens his eyes. He looks at Merlin, then smiles, then laughs, as if he can’t help it. “When did you realize?”

“What?”

“That it was me.”

Merlin snorts. “The moment you walked in.”

“Really?” Arthur sounds disappointed.

“Really.”

“Gwaine didn’t realize.”

“Gwaine’s an idiot,” Merlin says, but that’s not true and that’s not why, and they both know it. The simple fact of it is that Merlin would know Arthur anywhere, no matter what—would know him instantly and wholly, without reservation or doubt. And they both, apparently, know it.

Merlin feels a brief flash of grief. When he has disguised himself from Arthur before, Arthur has never known it. Merlin used magic to do it, of course: spells and sorcery rather than a change of clothes and gait. But it doesn’t change the fact that there is a part of Merlin that Arthur has never and will never know. And therefore what they feel for each other—whatever it is—will never be the same. Merlin’s love can never be returned in kind. Not even if Arthur wanted to—not even if he tried.

Merlin doesn’t realize that he’s blinking away tears until he sees Arthur frowning at him. “Merlin?”

He shakes his head. Arthur touches the side of Merlin’s face, brushes his thumb over Merlin’s cheekbone.

“Why did you do it?” Merlin asks after a long silent moment.

Arthur says nothing. He looks at Merlin, still touching his face. “I wanted to know,” he says at last, quietly. “Whether you...whether we....”

He trails off. In the end he says nothing more, and Merlin does not press him.

There are some things, after all, that both of them cannot say.


End file.
